


Where Did These Bruises Come From?

by Arrestzelle



Series: Rammstein Requests [2]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: Best Friends, Bruises, Drabble Collection, Hanging Out, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Rammstein Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 03:07:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21129752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: Begrudgingly, Till follows Richard into the countryside to relax under the sun and watch the cows. Richard notices the bruises.





	Where Did These Bruises Come From?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moon_waves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_waves/gifts).

> This is a drabble request for ghostlovesc0re on Tumblr!! I hope you like it Alix hehehe ♡

The cows amble along the pasture, heads dipped, tails swinging. Occasionally, they moo at each other, as if they were discussing the weather. And the weather today is quite hot, that’s for certain. The sun is pounding down upon the enclosed cows, as well as the pair currently seated on a grassy hill not far from the pasture. Richard is sitting cross-legged, his blonde dreads acting as a curtain, shielding his face from both the sun and Till’s gaze. He’s wearing an oversized t-shirt which hangs loosely around him, joined by black basketball shorts. Meanwhile, Till threw on a pair of baggy pants and an olive green shirt, tucked into the waistband. They were donned without much thought, before he trudged along after Richard to catch the tram to the countryside. And now, Till sits there upon the grass, staring out into the beyond, thoughts adrift in the sea of his restless mind.

“Fuck!” Richard curses, startling the other man out of his dazed daydreaming. Suddenly, Richard rears back and chucks the broken cigarette with full force in the direction of the grazing cows. Till watches him, sees the frustrated, pinched expression on his boyish face. Richard flips his blonde dreads back over his shoulder and sighs.

“Need help over there?” Till asks lowly, earning a flick of piercing emerald eyes. Richard scoffs.

“Like your massive fingers would be any better!”

“And how long have you been rolling cigarettes?” Till mutters, hunching forward to rest his elbows against his knees, threading his hands together, averting his gaze to the cows once more. Richard heaves another dramatic sigh.

“Apparently not long enough! Why won’t they agree with me today?”

“Maybe it’s a sign.”

“Till, if you tell me that I should quit, I’m going to shove you down the hill.”

Followed by this is the crinkling of paper and Richard readjusting his position on the grass. Till smiles to himself, secretively. Richard grumbles under his breath while he tries, for the third time, to roll a cigarette.

“Stupid fucking—Gah!”

Having just spilled tobacco everywhere, Richard gives up and promptly tosses all of his smoking materials away, lighter included—they land a few feet away, down the hill. Till watches from the corner of his eye, witnessing the younger man splat back onto the grass, splaying out with a heaved groan.

“Why are cigarettes so expensive?!” Richard growls, “I don’t even want to bother!”

“Then don’t,” Till says, “It seems cigarettes themselves won’t contribute to your future aneurysm; the frustration of making them will.”

“Oh, shut it.”

The whistling of the breeze and the mooing of the cows reclaims the silence. Till remains motionless, sitting there hunched over, watching the animals meander around. Richard continues laying back, arms folded under his head, eyes to the sky. As they remain lounging there, Till begins to wonder why Richard even wanted to come out here. It’s uncomfortably hot. Till pictures himself back at home, walking along another part of the countryside until he finds a suitable place to lean against a barrier or a wall, overlooking a river. He would just stand there, thinking about anything and everything. Sounds great to him. And then he would grab his book from his flat, go to his favorite café, and sit there for hours on end. Reading. Writing. Thinking.

It’s too hot. Sweat is suctioning his shirt to his back. Frowning, Till dislodges from his comfortable position, sitting up to grab his shirt and slide it off of himself, ripping it up over his head. A foolish maneuver—the roughness of it has him wincing. His muscles ache, throbbing in revenge. His short, chestnut brown hair is wild now, swaying in the breeze, surrounding his chiseled face.

That feels better. The wind is nice against his sweaty skin.

“We should find some shade,” he says, setting his shirt to the side. He peeks over to see Richard propped up on his elbows now, staring at his torso with a deeply furrowed brow and a frown on his full lips.

“What now?” Till demands impatiently. Richard meets his gaze. He points at his side. Till looks down at himself. A plum colored nebula covers the expanse of his rib cage, breaking apart in places. It wraps around to his back. Richard sits up with a rustle of grass and reaches out with gentle hands to grab Till by the elbow, turning his arm. There’s another bruise on his bicep, and darker, scarier one on his shoulder blade.

“Where did these bruises come from?” Richard asks quietly, stroking along the bruise on his bicep with careful fingertips. Till reluctantly pans his gaze up to meet Richard’s. Richard looks upset, his eyes set with a certain sternness, his dreads framing his young face. Till sighs.

“Nothing serious. It was an accident. I was carrying more than I could handle at a rehearsal. I tripped and fell; the amp landed on me.”

“Jesus!” Richard hisses, squeezing his hand around Till’s muscular forearm. He searches Till’s stony face with concern on his own. Till nods, lips pressed, and then shrugs a big shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

“You could have broken a rib or something! Or—or it could have crushed your head!” Richard snaps, taking in a sharp breath, looking quite displeased, his eyes fiery and jaw clenched. Till is silent. Richard scoffs at his lack of a reply. He scoots behind Till and reaches out to gently push his arm out, getting a better look at the bruise that stretches across his shoulder blade and his rib cage. Reaching out, he gingerly strokes a flattened palm along it. Till feels an ache merely from that light pressure, but even if it hurts, it doesn’t bother him. Richard is the one delivering him the pain this time, so he doesn’t mind it.

“God,” Richard breathes, hand slowly detaching from Till’s sweaty skin, falling away. Till is silent. He hears Richard shift behind him, and then suddenly, shocking him, gentle arms wrap around him. Warm, strong hands lightly cup around Till’s sides, while a cheek scratchy with sprouting facial hair rests against the center of his back, between his shoulder blades. Richard takes in a deep, shuddering breath and releases it in a slow exhale. He squeezes Till in an embrace, as tight as he dares to. That hurts as well, but Till finds he enjoys it. He relaxes back into it—into Richard’s embrace, and the pain it brings.

“That’s not okay,” Richard mumbles, his jaw and cheek moving against Till’s sun-tanned back as he speaks, “You could’ve seriously gotten hurt. Don’t risk yourself like that just to carry around a stupid fucking amp, when you could use a trolley or something. Or, _maybe,_ just ask for help. You don’t need to prove yourself, for whatever reason. You reckless ass.”

Till doesn’t say anything. Richard continues, softer now.

“I care about you. It’s not worth it.”

“Alright already,” Till replies in a low grumble, eyes downcast to watch himself pluck out blades of grass, almost petulantly. Richard pats his side and then detaches from him. He moves to sit beside him, closer this time. Till peeks over at him past the fringe of his disheveled hair. Richard gives him a pursed smile and then leans over to rest his head against his shoulder. His blonde dreads sweep across Till’s bicep, resting against him. Till stares down at Richard’s outstretched legs. His beat up Nikes are barely hanging on, the laces missing. His leg hair is golden under the sun. Till reaches out to pat him on the thigh, atop his basketball shorts.

“My tombstone won’t say ‘death by amp’,” Till murmurs, earning a glance from gentler emerald eyes, “I promise you that.”

A slight smirk pulls at Richard’s full lips, his gaze becoming both exasperated and fond. He then chuckles, his grin broadening, revealing his slightly crooked teeth and bringing out the roundness of his cheeks. He nods.

“I’m getting hungry,” he proclaims, changing the subject, “Let’s go get something from a bakery.”

“Sure,” Till agrees, enthusiastic for anything that includes leaving, even if it’s as tiresome and takes as much effort as going all the way back into the city just for a pastry. He’s getting a bit overheated. While Till moves to stand, grabbing his shirt, Richard crawls over to begin regathering his abandoned material: the package of cigarette butts, the container of rolling paper, and the sleeve of tobacco. Till watches with a thin smirk while Richard grumbles to himself, wounded by the loss of half of his tobacco as a result of his carelessness.

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


End file.
